


i am sorry this world could not keep you safe, may your journey home be a soft and peaceful one

by blessed_image



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gay Mike Hanlon, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Owie, Pansexual Stanley Uris, Sad Stanley Uris, Stanley Uris Character Study, Stanley Uris Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stanley Uris-centric, THIS IS SHITTTTT, but patty Knows, he doesnt get it bc of the whole...uh transphobic society thing yknow thats a big thing, he has ptsd but its not a main focal point, i wanted to do sumn on his ocd but then i didnt bc i got carried away with relationships and shit, idk if this even counts as a character study, so does bev but shh, stan has had a real rough go at things, stan uses he/him rn obvs and irs listed f/m bc he foesnt Know, which never really gets resolved i am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessed_image/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: Stanley Uris throughout the years.





	i am sorry this world could not keep you safe, may your journey home be a soft and peaceful one

•_**iam hopelessly**_•

He’s ten when he first experienced anything like it, whether that feeling is exactly what he still feels or just something akin is debatable. 

Bill is starstruck, a lopsided grin settling on his face as if it owns permanent residence in his features. Sunlight reflects off his eyes in a way Stan could never even dream to forget, and his voice was in a never ending struggle- words lost at such a rate he believed to be a record for the boy, yet his tone remained hopeful. Stan wonders what such a thing feels like, unsure whether that emotion he was wearing so bashful was really even an emotion at all- or if Bill had somehow created a whole new term for the dictionary that lays with a broken back beside Stan’s bed.

Something unpleasant nags at his brain, loud and nasty; he wouldn’t be caught dead believing such thoughts even in all their wisdom, which he thoroughly denies the best he can. Harsh words, words not meant to see the light of day, words that would rip that look off of Bill’s face like a band-aid that had been pressed down with hot-glue.

Through the muffling of the world around him, he makes out that he’s talking about a girl in his class- one with a name, a face and ideas that Stan is too lost in his own mind to care about. 

He catches Richie’s eye, that looks back with something that could accurately describe what he himself feels in the moment.They watch eachother as Bill carries on talking, Eddie pitching in every so often with whatever springs to mind. Stan frowns, tilting his head to the side slightly- but Richie just blinks before averting his attention back to the other two boys. Although, he doesn’t necessarily seem all there; as if the same noise attacking Stan is abusing his own consciousness also. 

He ignores it.

•**_a lover_**•

The losers are thirteen when they, presumably, kill Pennywise; and they all look so exhausted that Stan almost feels like telling them they look like shit- until he realises he probably looks just as bad, if not worse. 

It’s been a week since, but nothing much has changed; they all seem too tired to really hold up conversation, even when Beverly explains that she’s leaving soon for her Auntie’s house. She promises to visit as much as she can, but Stan can tell they’re empty at best, if not complete lies. 

Ben, Bill and Richie cry when she says this; and he’s unsure which part they’re really upset over. She stares at Stan either way, stern and fierce as she storms over towards him- but only once she consolidates the rest of the group. He takes in a deep breath, making eye-contact as best he can the entire time.

Her arms are thrown over his neck, holding him close even before he hesitantly wraps his own around her waist- even as she kisses his cheek, even as she runs a small hand through the back of his hair. Stan waits. 

“You can’t keep lying to yourself, Stan.” Beverly sighs softly. “That’s not what the losers are about, baby.” 

He tenses, but doesn’t let go. She giggles, stepping backwards to look him in the eyes. 

“I’ll miss you.” Stan nods. “Look after yourself.” 

They stare at eachother for a few more seconds, reluctantly saying goodbye to the embrace they share; Beverly walks off, shouting an “I love you, losers” over her shoulder.

It hits Stan that this is the last time they will probably ever see eachother. 

He exhales.

•**_a dreamer_**•

At fifteen years old, Stanley Uris is hit by the sudden realisation he’s in love with one Richie Tozier; and, a little belatedly, realises he is in love with Eddie Kaspbrak too. 

Sudden as in the fact was a passing thought, running through his mind like a dice rolling through his thin fingers; until, oh shit, he’s dropped it and now it’s staring him in the face as if it were personally offended that he hadn’t noticed sooner. Though, it wasn’t a romantic realisation- like it would be in the novels upon novels he has read both at school as well as in his free time; instead, in a very Eddie fashion, he freaked his shit.

He’s with Mike when it happens, and the other boy must have noticed Stan’s internal panic, as he sets down his book and interrupts himself mid-sentence.

“You okay there?” his voice cute through, slow and deliberate.

Stan looks at him, watching for any sign that he should be worried or scared to tell (who he now considers) his best friend. A sharp tug at his heart reminds him that, no matter what, he shouldn’t say anything- never say anything; because if he did then Mike would make him understand how wrong it is to feel such a way, would get Richie and Eddie and Ben and Bill to chime in. Maybe, just maybe, he would even drag Bev out to make a point. Stan looks away.

“No.” 

“No, as in you’re not okay or?” Mike isn’t stupid, he’s one of the smartest people he knows. Not quite as booksmart as Richie or himself, but he’s much better in social situations in comparison to all the losers combined. 

Mike can read the room, can interpret every word, can worm his way between each syllable so that he can truly read between the lines and just get it. Luckily, so far, Mike has also proven himself to be one of the kindest losers too. Never has he judged nor has he ever lied to Stan, no matter what. He re-evalutes what his reaction could be.

Mike smiles at him.

Stan believes he has no way out of this. He nods.

“Okay.” he states, lacing his hands together on top of the book he laid down on his lap. “What’s up?” 

Briefly, warning signs flash at the forefront of his brain- bright, neon yellow with ugly black letters printed on. He shakes them away to instead smile back.

“I think....” The words die in his throat, so he clears it- tasting them as they dance on his tongue in a fight for what comes next. “You know when Beverly left?” Mike bristles at this, pursing his lips as he nods.

“Yeah....” he starts, before a wide grin pulls at his cheeks. “Is this about that really intense hug she gave you? Are you two, like, a th-“ Stan interrupts him.

“She told me something.” The other boy’s face is neutral again. “She’s so smart, Mike.” 

They stare at eachother.

“She told me she knows.” He begins, voice starting to waver slightly as he builds up courage. “Before I knew, she knew.” 

Mike nods along, obviously not following but wanting to be supportive.

“I-Okay. What did she know, Stan?” He asks, hand drifting down to a pen nearby his lap; running calloused fingers along it.

“I....I think I like someone.” Mike stops, turns, opening his mouth. “Not Bev.” Stan rushes out, hands coming up to signal that his friend should not go down that path of thoughts any longer. He looks back down at the pen in his hand, playing with it.

Mike shifts for a few seconds, humming a song as he wonders who else it could be before shaking his head in defeat.

“We don’t really hang out with any other girls-“ The pen stops as it sits atop his knuckles. “Oh.”

Stan shrinks in on himself, and if he was self-concious talking about this before- then he has no clue what the fuck to call this. There’s a hole in the sleeve of his jumper, near his hand. He shoves his thumb through it.

“Oh, Stan, wow, okay.” Mike laughs out nervously, moving to sit on his knees faced in Stan’s direction; who just forces his presence in the room to deplete even more, covering his face with his hands. “No, no, no! That’s fine! Honestly, I just didn’t think there was someone else-“

Stan’s shoulders slack and Mike pauses.

“Someone else?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, I-“ This was the right thing to do, his mind supplies. “Bill.”

And now something he had been wondering for long also suddenly hit him, though this realisation hits him a lot less harder than the last few.

“Ah.” He replies helpfully. Mike smiles again, shyly.

“You?”

Stan curses under his breath.

“Richie.” Mike’s eyes widen. “And Eddie.” They widen even more, and now Stan can see why Beverly said they look as if there’s small flakes of gold in them. 

“Both? Shit, that’s intense.” He swears, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in support. Stan rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, how tired do you think I am? I literally just realised.” Mike laughs in disbelief.

They decide to hang out a lot more after this.

•**_and that_**•

Just seven days after Mike learnt about Stan’s feelings, something entirely unanticipated occured. 

First, Eddie was much more soft-spoken around him; a shy smile lifting his face, painted pretty by a light blush that would only show itself nearby either Richie or himself. Stan is convinced Mike said something, but can’t stay mad as Richie’s pale hand finds his own one day. 

Perplexed, he snapped it back before noticing the brief hurt that flashed through both of the other two boys’ features at the reaction. They leave.

•**_will be the death of me_**•

At sixteen years of age, which is much further than Stan thought he would achieve, Richie gives Mike a black eye.

Correction: Richie and Stan were arguing, Stan said something about his “extremely obvious crush on Eddie”, Richie punched Stan so hard his nose broke, Mike got involved, Richie punched Mike and everyone else had to hold one of the three participants of this “fight” back.

So, Eddie and Rich ran elsewhere to talk things out whilst the rest of the losers stay where they are. Bill mentions the time he punched Richie, mentions how he gets like that sometimes and how he can’t help it after the summer of 1989- but no one really pays attention. 

Ben is too busy trying to remember what health class taught about broken bones, leg bouncing anxiously as he sits silent and uncomfortable on the damp log by the water. Mike is looking at said broken nose, every so soften tilting Stan’s head to observe how bad it is- apologising when Stan grimaces, pulling back the tissue Ben shoved at him recently to check how much blood is still pouring out.

“What the fuck was that, Stan?” He asks after a long sigh, to which Bill finally stops talking. 

The blood caking the bottom half of his face, as well as some of his neck has long since dried now, intermingling with the few drops which are fresh that occasional find their way down. He feels sick, reminded of the time the scars littered around the sides of his head were new; especially when his jaw locks as he grinds his teeth at the implications of Mike’s words.

He’s blaming Stan for Richie’s actions, he takes note. Mike is blaming Stan for someone else’s fucked up, violent tendencies. Nausea laughs at him.

“He’s the one that hit me, ask Richie.” the reply is weak, pained as well as just pure exhausted. “He said a distasteful joke so I said one back.” 

Mike fixes him a stern look, but glances at his stiff jaw with pity. 

“That’s what he does. You should know better than any of us.” Stan falters, steeling his face when Mike follows suit. “Stan-“ 

“Save it.” he hisses, standing up as he snatches the tissue back out of the other’s hand- gagging when the blood soaked into the paper touches his fingers, cold. 

All three people he left behind at the quarry call out. Stan ignores them.

•**_we began in honesty_**•

There’s something wrong with him, he supposes.

It’s three am, Stan hasn’t slept in three days; counting hours upon hours, acting as if the seventy-fifth is really going to make any difference to his psyche. But maybe it will. 

Seventy hours since Richie punched him, sixty-nine hours since he left the only people who still (somehow, after all this time and all this bullshit) care about him down by the quarry. One year, one-hundred-and-three days and forty-two hours since he confessed his realisations to Mike. Three years, two-hundred-and-ninety-two days and sixteen hours since Beverly left. 

Three years, three hundred days and twenty three hours since Pennywise.

Three, three, three. 

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror that stares horribly back at him, he blinks. His eyes are red, an ugly colour that causes the blue of his iris stand out so intensely that he can’t look any longer. He runs a hand over his jaw, along his neck before stopping at his collarbone. A sudden thought crosses his mind, one that he knows has reared it’s ugly head into his life more than once. But, now, he’s finally alone with it; yet he still doesn’t understand. His body is wrong, he guesses it’s nothing though. Cursing, he turns the reflector towards the wall; even as his hands shake.

Three, three, three he reminds himself solemnly; looking down at the sketchpad ripped apart and strewn all over his usually pristine carpet floor. Scribbles, numbers, unmistakably angry threats lay dormant- pathetic in how they were so easily discarded. Picking them all up, Stan shoves them under the bed, utterly pissed off with the effort his past self is making him go through.

When he’s doing this, though, he finds one of Richie’s rings under his bed- one of those he used when he was trying to distract himself from either bad memories or his hyperactive brain. It’s small, silver and thin. Stan rolls it around between his thumb and index finger, watching as the moon shining through his window hits the metal surface of the jewelry. He huffs out, amused, slipping the accessory onto his pinkie finger; noticing how it isn’t much wider than the palmar digital arteries and nerves indicator at the base. 

He grins.

Thereafter, he remembers other small tokens that lay latent around his bedroom- an inhaler in case Eddie ever panicked for example. It’s old, having taken up space in his bottom right desk drawer ever since 1990- replaced after the one he put there in 1987 was used up.

One of the wristbands Richie left by mistake after a concert, a textbook Eddie let Stan borrow that he never returned. Some more things that Stan swears he remembers the anecdotes behind.

Then, he remembers he isn’t on speaking terms with Richie which, ultimately, means he isn’t on speaking terms with Eddie either.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

•**_let us end in it too_**•

Patricia Blum is easily the kindest person Stanley Uris could have ever met, and at just eighteen years old he convinces himself there’s more to life than the losers club. 

Her hands are soft, her voice is sweet and she is easily the prettiest creature he has ever had the pleasure of meeting. It takes a while, but when he feels so far in love with the idea of her; he kisses each crease of her hands- letting the words he’d refused to let push past his lips for so long spill into her palms. 

She accepts them gracefully, silk hair caressing his cheeks as she leans down and takes the secrets as her own. She listens about Richie and Eddie, listens to how unnerved Stan is that it’s almost been a year since he last spoke to any of the losers. How he hopes, he needs, them to be doing well because if they weren’t then he isn’t sure if he could truly live with himself.

She twists the ring that is still sat stubborn on his pinkie finger, asking for a story. He tells her there isn’t much of one, but she just asks again. 

Mike notices them one day from across the school, and still smiles as if he was genuinely happy for Stan despite everything.

Patricia stays a constant throughout his life, peppering kisses along his arms- along his hands and scars and insecurities until the age of forty. She runs her fingers through his hair as much as she can, telling him just how pretty he is; reassuring him she loves him no matter what. He appreciates it.

Then, Mike appears again, but only through the phone.

**Author's Note:**

> this is shit but i hope u like it  
for the fskl:st gc  
owie
> 
> also check the mini titles at the start of each section luvs xx we sad


End file.
